We’ve gotten to the point at which I can look in the mirror without jerking back and saying aloud, “Dad! When did you fly in to Tokyo?” Seriously, I look like my father, but with facial hair, I look exactly like my father. I still don’t like having to trim the stupid thing and am hoping to get the go-ahead from my dermatologist to lop it all off again as soon as is feasible.

My most sarcastic friend–who once, when I showed up in my new flirty little acid-green knit shirt, greeted me with a hand on the shoulder and a drawled, “Thank goodness you’ve arrived, baby–a five-foot-tall Bloody Mary just came by looking for you”–was as non-judgmental as could be expected: “So, did you always have that on your face and I just didn’t notice because of the lighting at GB?” More than one other friend has said, “It looks okay, but I liked you when you were more boyish-looking before.” These are not, mark you, lecherous middle-aged friends; these are the guys I know in their early 20s. Not sure what that means.

Atsushi says I feel like a hedgehog. But it’s only fair to note that I’ve been telling him he feels like a hedgehog every weekend for four years. He has the typical Asian whiskers that are sparse but perfectly round in cross-section. Each shaft sticks straight out like a boar bristle. After two days of not shaving his chin, he’s like an emery bit. The emery bit of my dreams, but an emery bit nonetheless.